


Together (The Song of Patrick)

by faerierequiem



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, primarily due to sexual content and language, the fic gets mature towards the second half so proceed with that knowledge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerierequiem/pseuds/faerierequiem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tristan Pelides is a runner, a juggler, a singer — and completely enamored of the new boy at school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together (The Song of Patrick)

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those modern, reincarnation high school AUs, but I didn’t keep the name “Achilles” or “Patroclus”. Patroclus I changed to Patrick because of it’s obvious similarity and for nickname reasons. His last name is “Abner”, because the meaning of Abner (“my father is a light”) is similar to the meaning of Patroclus (“glory of father”) and then I found I could use it as a last name, so I did. Achilles I went with “Tristan”, because both names have to deal with grief and sorrow. His last name is a bit of a stretch, but I went with it, because I wanted to and why not? Plus, I know it’s fun to imagine Agamemnon and Odysseus and all the others as high schoolers, too, but I went literally with reincarnation age-wise, so they’re older men off doing other things. Was going to make Odysseus a teacher, but oh well, I didn’t.  
> On music: Other than the mentioned song, I also listened to Big Sixes' "Unless I'm Mistaken" a ridiculous amount of times for the vast majority of the last half and definitely during ~certain scenes~ and through the editing process. (You should check out their whole EP "The Idles".)

Meeting: Thief

_The first time I see you it is early in the morning. It is a Monday. 7:13 AM._

_I am lounging around in the office when you walk in. You have sprinkles of stars across your cheeks and nose, the gentlest of eyes, the slightest of dark curls. You look like a watcher, a listener, a contemplative soul. I stare and become aware that my breathing has slowed, that my heart has grown light. I stare and stare and if you had looked over, you would’ve seen how much of an idiot I was making of myself, but you didn’t — something I was grateful for when I came to again._

_I tried to remember if I had ever seen you around before, but then you spoke and though I couldn’t hear your words, because you were so quiet, I listened to your voice. The soft, careful timbre of it. It left me mesmerized, unable to think._

_The secretary’s voice broke me out of my trance. “Here’s your schedule sweetie! I hope you have a good first day!”_

_“Welcome to Phthia High!” A voice chimed in – and to my surprise, it was mine. I held my breath as I waited for you to react and even though your passing glance did not linger on me for too long, I was speechless._

_You gave me a nod and murmured a “thank you” and I would’ve said “you’re welcome”, but your brown eyes had stolen my words. I could not say anything, not do anything, so I watched you leave the office and felt numb for the rest of the morning._

 

 

* * *

I saw him later on in the cafeteria. He was sitting by himself in the corner of the room. I craned my neck to watch the way his jaw moved as he chewed and I thought to myself,  _Shit. What am I doing?_

“Tristan!”

I watched his Adam’s apple bob up as he swallowed.

A hand grabbed at my arm. “Yo, hey! Pelides!”

I had to force myself to look away from him and to Kyle. “What is it?”

“Who’s the hot chick you’re so intent on checking out?” Kyle asked.

I turned myself from the guy and tried to focus on my lunch. “There is no hot chick,” I said, shaking his hand off my arm.

Kyle looked disappointed. “Man, the way you were staring I would’ve thought she had a massive rack or something.”

I rolled my eyes. “If that was the case, you definitely would’ve noticed before me.”

* * *

For the rest of the school day, I hope that I will see him again, but to my disappointment, I don’t. The same lunch period should be enough, but it isn’t. I want to have a class with him – even if it’s just one.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

I’ve always considered myself a rational person. I’ve never been one to believe in the notion of “love at first sight”. I’ve had crushes on boys before, but those feelings were fleeting.

This. This is different. This is out of my grasp. It’s almost not my emotions to feel. It’s as if these emotions have been lying dormant inside of me my whole life, just waiting for the sight of him so that they can finally be released.

I don’t know how to handle that. And I don’t think waiting them out would be of use, because I know in my gut: This is undeniably, unutterably, unbelievably real. It’s as if my heart has grown to fill the cavity of my chest and it is pulsing with this, this, this.  _Him, him, him._

I continue to think of him and I look forward to tomorrow when I will be able to see him again.

* * *

He’s sitting in the same spot.

Nearly thirty minutes have gone by, but still I sit at my table, listening to Kyle and Tyler and Matthew and Carter talk about sports and girls and girls and sports.

I keep sneaking glances at him. I wish I knew his name. I wish I had the courage to go over there and ask him. Introduce myself. Make a fool of myself. Do anything with myself other than sit here, hunched over the table and twiddling my thumbs and half-listening to the news about Stephanie.

“Tristan,” Matthew says.

I flinch. It’s not a small, dainty flinch. It’s a flinch hyper-induced with nerves and giddiness and the grace of a klutz. I hit the edge of the table and rattle it, which causes my milk carton to tip over. Before I can do anything, the milk has dripped over the edge and I feel the coolness of it soaking through my jeans.

The guys burst out laughing. “Nice going, Pelides!”

I can’t help myself. I glance over to where he is and almost burst into a yelp when I see that he’s looking over his shoulder in my direction. He catches sight of me looking and turns back to his table. I feel like doing somersaults and singing a musical. If he didn’t before, now I know for sure that he knows I exist. It’s a grand enough feat for the day.

* * *

In choir, Mr. Burchard notes my enthusiasm. I just shrug and grin. “Maybe I met a muse,” I tell him.

In AP English literature, Mrs. Slater is asking us to pull out our copies of  _Twelfth Night_  when someone arrives. I don’t take notice at first, too busy arguing over last night’s assignment with Laurel, the girl who sits behind me. Then, the class goes quiet and I hear Mrs. Slater asking a question.

A soft-spoken voice answers her, “They accidentally put me in the regular lit class.”

I go still and turn around in my seat.

It’s him.

I feel my heart begin to beat again with  _this, this, this_. It’s him. It’s him. It’s him.

I don’t realize I’m staring until Mrs. Slater speaks again. “Good news for Tristan and Stephen. They won’t be so lonely anymore.” She points to me and Stephen — the only other guy in the class. “I’m Mrs. Slater.”

“Patrick,” he says. “Patrick Abner.”

 _Patrick_ , I repeat to myself.  _His name is Patrick._  Then I repeat it to myself a hundred more times.  _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick…_

“Well, Patrick, we’re about to discuss  _Twelfth Night_ ,” Mrs. Slater says. “Are you familiar with it?”

Patrick shakes his head.

“Thankfully, we’ve only just started the play,” Mrs. Slater gestures for him to take a seat. “Let me check out a book to you and we’ll get you caught up.”

Patrick nods and I see his eyes glance over the classroom.

I allow myself only a second to hesitate. When the words come, they do so a bit too loudly, bursting and jumpy like firecrackers. “Hey, Patrick! You should sit next to me!” I pat the desk next to me and try on my best smile.

The class — all fourteen girls and Stephan — laugh.

Patrick doesn’t spare me a second look. He takes a seat next to Stephan, who raises an eyebrow and a pretend sword at me in victory.

I roll my eyes, but the smile that stays on my face is crumbling at the edges. I want to curl up and hide in a box until I’m given a second chance to redo the past few minutes, but I can’t. So I sit up straight and try not to show my disappointment and delve into the discussion, doing my best to prove to Patrick just how intelligent I am.

* * *

I don’t fall into the trap again.

When lunch arrives, I avoid the attention of my friends and walk straight to the table where Patrick sits, knowing that if I sit with my friends, I’ll never be able to escape – rather it be because of myself or them or both.

Patrick isn’t there yet, but I sit down and wait. Soon enough, he walks up to the table. I know he’s aware of my presence and for a moment, I’m terrified that he will turn and walk away, but almost stubbornly, he continues towards me and sits down at the table.

I clear my throat. “Hi.”

“If you’re here to ask me for lunch money, I’m penniless,” he mutters.

I gape at him. Then feel like a fish and stop. “I… What? No. I was, um, if you need help in class, don’t, I mean, you know, don’t hesitate to tell me and we could maybe study together?” I hold back a wince. “Or talk?” I clear my throat again and repeat myself, making sure to sound more resolute this time. “Or talk.”

“I’ve dealt with Shakespeare before,” Patrick says. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

I open my mouth to say something, but someone calls out my name before I can.

“Pelides!”

I allow myself a quick moment to collect myself and curse the approaching Kyle and Tyler before greeting them. “Hey, guys!”

“Why are you sitting over here?” Kyle asks. He looks over at Patrick, but quickly loses interest. After all, Patrick isn’t a hot chick with huge breasts. Sometimes I wonder how we became friends.

Tyler runs his tongue over his teeth. “Hey, dude, you wouldn’t happen to have some money on you that I could borrow, would you?”

I don’t say anything. I’m shocked that Tyler would have the audacity to ask Patrick for lunch money and I wonder how  _we_  became friends…until I realize that he’s asking me. I snap back into focus and quickly shake my head. “Uh, sorry. No.”

“I think I’m going to mooch off you,” Tyler says to Kyle.

“What? Not again,” Kyle protests. “You mooched off me just last week!”

I turn my focus away from them.

Patrick has begun eating his lunch. I’m staring at his mouth when he looks over at me. Embarrassed, I glance away and pretend that I have been looking at something else.

“I just…” I start to say something, but then stop and sigh. “You’re probably smarter than me at Shakespeare, so if I ever needed help, could I…” I look him in the eyes. “Could I get help from you?”

Patrick takes his time to answer, but I don’t mind. I like looking at his freckles so much that he could take the whole period coming to a decision and I would still be patiently waiting. I like how he’s putting a lot of thought into it. It’s a quality I wished I had. Sometimes I feel like I’m too reckless and too quick to act and matter over mind.

“Okay.”

The answer comes at me from out-of-nowhere.

We make eye-contact.

“I don’t think I’m the best at Shakespeare, but if you think I’ll be of help then sure,” Patrick says.

I don’t know how to reply. His brown eyes are stealing my words again, so I have to force myself to look away and nod. “Cool.” My voice wobbles a bit, so I swallow and clear my throat. “Thanks.”

Patrick shrugs. A small, brief motion that makes my fingers itch to do something, but Kyle is pulling at my elbow before I know what it is that I want to do.

“Come on, Pelides! Time to fill that stomach of yours.”

I allow him to pull me up onto my feet. “See you in AP, Pat.” I catch myself and quickly ask, “Can I call you Pat?”

Patrick just shrugs again.

I shove my hands into my pockets, to stop myself from using them, to stop myself from doing whatever it is that I want to do to him in this crowded cafeteria. I give him a nod and walk away with Kyle and Tyler.

* * *

“How was school?”

I close the front door behind me. “Awesome.”

Mom is sitting on the couch in the living room, painting her nails a blue color. I’m slightly surprised by the absence of red. It’s always her color. She blows on her nails and sets the small bottle of nail polish down onto the coffee table. “Have you signed up for cross country yet?”

“Me? Sign up for cross country?” I scoff. “Mom, they’ll practically be waiting for my arrival.”

“Don’t be so arrogant, Tristan,” Mom says, but I know it’s the answer she was waiting for. Even if I haven’t mastered the art of handling myself around boys I like, I have mastered acting accordingly to my mom’s countless expectations and rules. It’s not much of a wonder why I like living at Dad’s more.

“Does pasta sound good for tonight?” She asks.

“Yeah,” I nod. “Pasta sounds great.”

I inch towards the staircase. “I’ll be upstairs, doing homework,” I tell her. I bound up the stairs, two steps at a time, and towards my room, where I proceed to lie on my bed and etch his name into the freckles of his that I’ve kept within my memory.

* * *

School continues on as it always does, but with Patrick’s presence, school begins to feel  _more_ in an essence. It’s still the usual class-to-class routine, but the dull, gray world of it has been brightened with colors I’ve never seen before in my life, colors I don’t even know the name to, colors I never would’ve thought I’d see. I feel like I can be  _more_. I know I can be more.

When cross country starts, I feel like I’m running the best I’ve ever ran. I am faster, swifter,  _freer_.

Patrick stays in his shell only the first few days before he begins to raise his hand in AP Lit and speak more. He brings up points that make each and every one of us rethink our thoughts, points that we all missed – some of them are even things Mrs. Slater never noticed in all her years of teaching. He’s brilliant.

At lunch, I see that a girl has started to sit with him. I don’t know her name, but the way they laugh and smile at each other has my stomach churning in worry.

I begin to feel as if he’s forgotten about me.

One day as I’m waiting for the bell to ring, I decide to juggle the apple I saved from lunch. Juggling is a skill I picked up when I was a little kid, bored with nothing to do and inspired by the cartoon character on TV. Afterwards, I naturally did it whenever I wanted to fill time.

It’s the first time any of my AP classmates have seen me juggle. They watch in amusement as the red apple passes from one of my hands to the other, flying up into the air and down again, up and down and up and down. I keep a steady rhythm along to a song from choir that I play inside of my head.

Patrick walks into the room. Right away, my eyes meet his and I expect myself to fumble and drop the apple, but it keeps going, up and down and up and down. A silent second passes between us. I don’t think. Almost as if on its own, the apple is moving in an arc from my hands to his.

He catches it. The easy way he did it left no room for mistakes and neither of us seems surprised. It’s as if we’ve done this a hundred times before, except the truth is that this is the first.

Everyone else in the room claps.

“Nice catch!” I hear Stephan shout.

“And nice juggling!” A girl, Alejandra, adds.

Patrick looks away from me and down at the apple.

I can’t tell what he’s thinking. My heart beats loudly in my ears and my voice seems faded in comparison. “Keep it.”

Mrs. Slater enters the room and takes in the scene. “What did I miss?”

“I think Patrick and Tristan are going to sign up for the circus,” Laurel says.

The class laughs, but the whole time Patrick is looking at the apple and I’m wishing that I could read his mind.

* * *

I go to AP Lit in an extremely good mood. Mr. Burchard has picked me to sing the solo at the beginning of one of the choir’s songs – much to the sopranos’ bewilderment – and I would be floating above the clouds if I didn’t see Patrick looking so sad. For a moment, I think I could be wrong and that he’s simply tired, but his downcast eyes and frown holds an alertness that cancels the thought.

I wish I had another apple to juggle.

Mrs. Slater tells us to put our desks in a circle. “Let’s chat about Act 3!”

I watch Patrick as the class moves to scoot our desks together. No one else seems to notice his mood. I can’t concentrate very well for most of the seminar and sit there quietly, too wrapped up in my own mind.

Patrick doesn’t say anything either.

Then, I hear someone say, “I think the friendship between Antonio and Sebastian is really nice. Like when—”

“I don’t think what they had was friendship.”

My voice surprises even me. At the sound of it, everyone turns their heads to look at me. I notice that even Patrick looks up and so I continue, trying not to stumble over my words as I explain, “I mean, on Antonio’s side at least. Sebastian might have considered it as friendship, but I think Antonio was in love with Sebastian.”

I grab the book and hastily flip to page I’m thinking of. “He even says here – at the beginning of act 2, scene 1, line…34 that ‘if you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant’ and later ‘I do adore thee so that danger shall seem sport’.

“Sure, Antonio fell in love with Sebastian as quickly as Viola did with Orsino and Olivia with Cesario, but quickly he proves his feelings in that even though he’s not on good terms with Orsino’s court and that his life would be on the line, he’s still willing to go with Sebastian and help him. He gives Sebastian money and even risks his safety defending Viola when he mistakes her for Sebastian. At the very beginning, he saves Sebastian from drowning. I think that’s more than any of the other characters have done, because to me, the rest of them are all talk and no walk when it comes to love.”

“But Andrew was willing to fight Cesario for Olivia,” Laurel points out.

“Only because Toby suggested it,” I say. “Everything Antonio is doing, all of his actions, he’s doing it from his heart – and with no one else’s counsel. It proves to me that –”

I’m about to go on, but the sight of Patrick getting up from his seat brings me to a halt.

Everyone’s attention turns towards him as he walks to Mrs. Slater and asks her if he can go to the nurse’s office. His skin is so pale.

Suddenly, I feel like an idiot for assuming he was sad when he was actually just sick.

Mrs. Slater nods her head in worry. “Do you want someone to come with you?”

I don’t even hesitate to volunteer. “I can do it.”

Patrick shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.” He ducks his head as he excuses himself and leaves the room.

* * *

The first cross country race is that weekend. A week beforehand, Mom starts making sure I’m eating properly and getting enough practice more than she normally does. On the day of the race, she wakes me early to warm-up. Even if she’s never taken pride in my singing or my friends or my hobbies or my plans for after high school or my father or myself in general, her pride in my athletics is immense—a combination of all the pride she could’ve placed elsewhere, but didn’t.

“Don’t forget what the doctor told you, Tristan!” She calls out to me when I run past the house again. “If you feel something might be wrong with your calf or heel, stop and tell me!”

I give her a nod. I know she doesn’t want what happened last spring to happen again. Maybe her reasons aren’t all the right ones, but I don’t want to have to miss out again either.

The morning air is the cool, crisp temperature of autumn nearing winter. The sun has risen, but it’s still too early for most people to have woken up yet, so save for my mom’s constant voice and an occasional passing car, everything else is quiet, an untouched and sacred world. I relish it.

At that moment, I am the only thing that is truly alive.

* * *

“Congratulations on the win.”

When I look up from the assignment I have been hurrying to finish for my next class, I am ecstatic to see that it’s Patrick. Quickly, I cover my worksheet and grin up at him. “Thanks!” Then, I fully grasp his words and ask to make sure, “Do you mean for cross country?”

I realize the moment the question leaves my mouth that it’s a stupid one to ask, because cross country was my only win this weekend – unless he somehow saw my winning streak at online chess.

Patrick nods.

Quickly, I tell him, “Thank you, um, again.”

We fall into an awkward silence. I was so happy that he’s talking to me, but now I’m desperate to think up something clever to say so that he doesn’t regret it.

“Hey, if you wanted to, I’m sure you could join,” I say.  _Lame, Tristan, lame._

Patrick shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not really much of a sports person.”

“Oh.”  _Think, Tristan, think!_  “That’s cool.” I want to slam my face into my desk.

“You…” Patrick pauses. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was embarrassed. “You looked—”

The bell rings, cutting him off.

I realize I’m almost leaning forward on the edge of my seat to hear what he has to say, but Patrick excuses himself and goes to sit at his desk next to Stephan. I lean back in my seat and have to fill in the blank with “idiotic” or “moronic” or “lame”, because if it’s not that, then it’s something I would really want to hear and the thought that I didn’t get to hear it is almost too much to bear.

* * *

Before class ends, I make sure all my stuff is packed and that I am ready to get up and go as soon as the bell rings. Usually I am not and Patrick ends up leaving before me, but today I am ready.

When the bell rings, I walk up beside him, trying my best to be as casual as possible. “So, what class do you have next?”

“Philosophy,” Patrick says. “You?”

“Math.” I raise a fist unenthusiastically. “Whoo-hoo.”

He laughs a bit and I mentally mark that down as a point for me.

“Do you like philosophy?” I ask.

Patrick nods. “For the most part, yeah. Sometimes I think it’s a little too full of itself, but it is thought-provoking and I like pondering over our existence and feeling insignificant.”

We come across a tight space in the hallway and I gesture for him to walk between the two groups first before I follow.

When we’re side-by-side again, he continues, “Right now we’re discussing Greek philosophy. I really like it so far. Their perspective on love makes a lot of sense.”

I’m so mesmerized by his bright eyed passion that I nearly bump into a girl opening her locker. “Why’s that?”

“Love is really three-dimensional and there are terms for all –”

“Pelides!”

We both look over our shoulders for the source of the voice. I hold back an aggravated sigh and am not surprised when I see Kyle walking up to us.

Patrick glances back at me. “My class is upstairs, so I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then.”

I don’t want him to go, but reluctantly, I say “see you” and watch him head up the stairs, getting further and further away from me with each step.

Kyle arrives next to me. “Who was that guy?”

I don’t answer him, but as soon as Patrick turns the corner and out of my sight, I immediately say, “Kyle, you have the worse timing ever.”

* * *

“Now that we’ve finished the play, you know what that means!” Mrs. Slater pauses for dramatic effect, but we all already know what she’s going to do – the seminar dance, which is really just a quick shimmy with jazz hands to finish. “Seminar tomorrow! It’s going to be a significant portion of your grade, but as I already know all of you are going to do well, I’m not worried.”

“You have too much faith in us,” Stephan jokes.

It’s then when the bell rings, so Mrs. Slater yells over it, “Be not afraid of greatness!”

Patrick waits for me to pack up. I don’t have to hurry anymore to get to him before he’s out the door. We’ve fallen into the routine of walking together. This progress leaves me so thrilled that sometimes I’m nearly speechless by it.

Today I take a little bit longer to put my stuff away, trying to buy myself some time to build up the courage and phrase the question in my mind.

“Is something the matter?” Patrick asks.

“Oh no, I’m fine!” I shake my head and quickly put on my backpack. “Let’s go.”

We walk out the door and head down the hallway. I can already see that stairwell and know I only have a minute – probably even less – to ask him. I take in a deep breath and as soon as I exhale, I ask him, “Would you like to come to my house afterschool to prep for the seminar?”

Patrick looks slightly caught-off-guard, which I take as a bad sign.

Trying not to panic, I add, “It doesn’t only have to be for the seminar. We could do other homework or just hang out and, uh, eat or something. Do you like peaches? Because my mom bought a lot of them and she doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s more peaches than two people can handle. You could help out.” I stop, feeling like a babbling idiot.

Patrick gets a look that I know means he’s thinking, so I wait for him to speak next.

Finally, he nods his head. “Sure.” He laughs a little. “I do like peaches, so I’ll be willing to help out.”

“Awesome.” I grin at him and the smile he gives me almost makes me give him a hug right then and there.

* * *

When I arrive home, I am relieved to see that Mom is not there. I recall that she has an appointment somewhere and hope that the appointment lasts her at least an hour or three.

Immediately, I run up to my bedroom. I tidy up the unmade bed, put away my discarded laundry, and rearrange the other miscellaneous around my room in an orderly fashion. I’m about to look over it all to make sure everything is alright when I hear the doorbell ring and I’m out the room and to the door in five seconds flat.

Just as my hand is reaching for the doorknob, I realize how nervous I am. Closing my eyes, I imagine that I’m running for cross country and nearing the finish line, imagine myself taking in that last breath of air before I cross it, imagine that first step past the end and the rush of victory. This is the moment before that victory. I am so close.

…Only this time I’m not prepared. It feels unreal when I open the door and see Patrick standing there, with his bright eyes and lean form and earth-colored skin.

He speaks first. “Hi.”

“Hey.” I snap out of my trance and move aside. “Come in.”

Patrick steps inside, glancing around the house.

I close the door and look around, too, trying to see it the way he might see it. The house is spacious and open. From the front door, you can easily see the living room and kitchen, with the stairs leading to the second floor on the right. Mom has hung up paintings on the wall – art from way back before America was even discovered to the modern art of today. Meanwhile, the walls, furniture, and carpet are pale of color and uninteresting, not drawing the attention as easily, which I am sure is a deliberate move on Mom’s part.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” I say.

Patrick turns to me. “I realized that you only mentioned your mom earlier.” He hesitates and I realize what he’s thinking.

“Oh no, my dad is still alive,” I tell him. “My parents divorced when I was little and most of the time, I live here with my mom.”

Patrick nods in understanding. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I was thinking that, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to step on anything too sensitive.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I should’ve told you sooner.” I clear my throat and change the subject, wanting to erase the guilty expression he has on his face. “So how about those peaches?”

His smile is small, but it’s more than enough. “Let’s get to it.”

* * *

I burst out laughing. “Would you have agreed to it?”

Patrick shakes his head. “Even if I had thought it was a dream, I wouldn’t have been able to believe that someone that pretty would want me, so Olivia would have  _really_  had to convince me of her affections first.”

“Good thing Sebastian isn’t like you then,” I say, laughing again.

Patrick grins and takes a bite of his peach. Like me, the juice of the fruit runs from his mouth and down to his chin, messy and leaving thin, glistening trails on his skin.

We’re having an eating contest. So far I am beating him by two peaches. A pile of peach seeds lies on a napkin next to the bowl of the fruits.

I let out a gleeful shout when I finish my peach and reach for a new one. Now I am beating him by three.

Patrick laughs. “I don’t think you realize that all you’re going to win is a full stomach.”

“Not true. I’m going to win the contest, too.” I correct him. “Unless we want to come up with a prize.”

“No,” Patrick shakes his head. “No prizes. Only the temporary feeling of winning.” He throws his peach seed at the pile, but misses. The seed falls down to the floor and he leans forward on a knee and his hands to pick it up.

From my spot on my bed, I watch him, the way his back moves as he goes through the motions, the way his fingers close around the seed, the stretch of his thighs and up to his –

“You were right.”

I blink, embarrassed and startled. A rush of adrenaline pulses through me. “What?”

“You were right about Antonio and Sebastian,” Patrick says. “Or more accurately: Antonio to Sebastian.”

I sit up. “Really?”

Patrick raises an eyebrow at me. “Antonio basically says it all in act 5.” He bites into his peach, chews, and swallows. “You know, you gave me the first impression that you weren’t going to be, well, very smart.”

At this, I really sit up. “How did I do that?” I ask, bewildered.

“You probably don’t remember, but one time at lunch you came up to me and ended up asking me for help.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t help but think that you must have failing really badly if you were willing to come up and ask a random stranger.”

“I-I,” I stammer, not knowing what to say, if I should tell him the truth.

“I’m catching up to you,” he tells me, waving his nearly-finished peach in the air. “What about you? Would you have agreed to marry Olivia?”

Slowly, I shake my head. A “no” falls out of my mouth as easily as the flesh of the peaches parts between our teeth.

Patrick looks up at me. “Why?”

“Because…” I turn my eyes away to the window. “Because I would be in love with someone else.”

“Who?” His voice sounds loud in my ears.

I confess my answer quietly, “Antonio.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything. His silence is even louder than his words, almost unbearably so.

“As pretty as Olivia would be, I have just met her after all,” I say. “I think I would’ve fallen in love with Antonio because…” I falter. “I don’t know. Antonio did a lot for me. It might not have meant a lot to Sebastian, but it would’ve meant everything to me.”

Outside of the windows, the clouds seem to get brighter until I can no longer look out at them. When I can finally look at Patrick, he’s quietly chewing at a new peach, eyes down, expression pensive but also sad almost.

“Pat?” I sound like I’m asking a question, but I don’t mean to be. Cautiously, I get off the bed to move next to him. “Pat.”

For a horrible moment, I don’t think he’s going to look at me, but he lowers his peach, swallows, and turns his head. His eyes are unsure and afraid and full of something else – something I think is mirrored on my own face.

“I never told you,” he half-whispers, half-chokes. “When you run, you look beautiful.”

And in the next second, before I can say or do anything, he’s kissing me.

* * *

“You always look beautiful.” Patrick tells me between each sweet kiss. “Beautiful. Beautiful.”

Before I know it, I am crying and I don’t know if it’s because I’m so happy or so sad, because somehow it feels like both. My tears mix with the sweet taste of peaches and soon our kisses are salty and he’s pulling away and frantic with apologies.

“Oh God, if you want me to stop — if you want me to leave, I can go,” he says.

My throat feels so tight I can’t do anything other than firmly shake my head.

Patrick raises a hand to my face, but he stops and I’m aware that it’s because his hands are sticky and he’s afraid to touch me with or without the stickiness, so I take his hands in mine and place them against my face.

The panic in his face softens just a little bit. He wipes away my tears. “Is it weird that I feel like I’ve known you for a long time?” He asks. His voice is tentative, fearful, wistful.

I shake my head. “No. It’s not weird.” A short, relieved laugh comes out from me. “I feel that way, too.”

He makes a small sound – of wonder, of puzzlement, of disbelief, I don’t know. His fingers are gentle against my skin, made unsticky by my tears. I can smell the fragrance of peaches coming off of them and somewhere in the back of my mind I’m completely amazed that this is even happening.

“I’ve felt that way ever since I first saw you,” I tell him.

“Oh.” Patrick’s eyes widen, understanding dawning on him.

I give him a small smile and lean my forehead against his. My hands, sticky with peach juice, hover at the sides of his face and I ask him, “Can I touch you?”

He nods. His nose brushes against mine as he does.

I place my hands along his jaw and kiss him on the nose and then across his cheeks. I do it so carefully it’s as if I’m afraid his freckles might come off at the touch of my lips, and even if it’s silly and not true, I still wouldn’t kiss him any other way, because he’s a living piece of art and he deserves all the care in the world.

My hands move onto his cheeks and then down to his side as I move to kiss his neck.

I can feel his hands on my back and along my spine and he’s pulling me closer and closer with each of his breaths and I’m kissing him harder and harder. Our lips fall onto each other again and we’re kissing and kissing and it’s desperate, overwhelming desire the flavor of peaches.

My hands slip underneath his shirt and my hands are sticky and I know I should stop, but I can’t stop running my fingers over his skin. I tell him sorry and sorry again like tomorrow is never coming and I’m responsible for it, but all I’m really at fault for is giving him a reason to stop and use the shower. He doesn’t stop. He lets me touch him with my sticky, trembling fingers and the only thing he stops is me saying sorry and I would apologize forever if it meant he would always kiss me like this and every part of my being is bursting with this, this, this.  _Him, him, him._

“Tristan!”

We break apart, breathing heavy, hearts beating fast, undone and vulnerable against the whole world.

I don’t fully register the voice until my name is repeated again and then I jump to my feet. “It’s my mom!”

Patrick blinks up at me, blankly, but then grasps the meaning of my words with wide eyes.

“The bathroom is just down the hall,” I tell him, pointing towards the door. “Go and clean yourself up.”

He shakes his head and I’m about to go into full-panic mode when he says, “You need the bathroom more than me.”

He’s probably right, but I’m reluctant to leave him to face my mom alone.

Patrick is looking up at me a bit confused and I’m aware of how idiotic I look just standing there, but in the next second, he’s grabbing my hand. “Go on, Tristan.”

I squeeze his hand and lean down to give him one last, sticky kiss. Leaving him alone in the room to inevitably meet my mom is a difficult thing for me to do, but not nearly as difficult as pulling away from his kiss.

* * *

The next day, I stand in range of the cafeteria doors. As soon as I see Patrick walking out from the crowds, I’m calling out his name and he looks at me and grins. A part of me is relieved that he looks as excited to see me as I do him.

We both smile at each other for a good, unabashed moment.

I want to kiss him so bad.

“How’s your day been?” Patrick asks. He lowers his gaze, but the smile stays on his face.

Suddenly, the giddiness I’ve been feeling gives away to shyness. I shift on my feet to ease some of the nerves and reply with, “It’s been good, but it’s much better now. You?”

He laughs, meeting my eyes again. “Same.”

I really,  _really_  want to kiss him.

He waits for me to say something, a patient, gorgeous smile on his face.

I clear my throat. I want to ask him what it means for us now, what we are, if we’re boyfriends, but that feels like something I shouldn’t ask so soon and I have something else to tell him anyways. “I have a choir concert next Thursday at 7 PM.”

A look of intrigue flashes across his face. “You didn’t tell me you’re in choir.”

“Well, now you know.” I laugh a little bit. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. “I would like it if you came to it – if you’re not busy with anything, that is. I have a solo and everything. And there’s cookies.”

Patrick stops me. “No need to sell this to me. I’m already marking down the date.”

Just like that, the nerves are gone and my smile widens. I swallow down the longing to kiss him. Instead, I reach out a hand and gently touch his arm, just above the elbow. “Awesome.”

* * *

I don’t see Patrick at lunch on Monday, but I don’t assume anything of it until AP Lit comes along and he’s also absent. He’s not here the next day and Wednesday trickles by without him as well. When Thursday arrives, I look for him in the cafeteria, hoping to spot him, but to my dismay, he’s nowhere to be found.

I feel a hole beginning to grow in my chest, gaping wider and wider, letting in fear and worry and regret – fear that I won’t ever see him again, worry that something terribly wrong has happened to him, regret that I didn’t ask him for his number.

Before the choir concert, a few people note my distress, but they mistake it for nerves.

“You’ll do a wonderful job, Tristan,” Mr. Burchard assures me.

I thank him and have to leave for the bathroom to splash water on my face and give myself a moment.

Most of the concert passes by in a blur, but when I step out to do my solo, everything clears. As the piano begins to play, I’m searching for his face in the crowd, but I can’t find him. I try to keep the emotions locked up inside, but when it’s my turn to sing, I find that I can’t and everything flows out of my mouth in song,

_Think of me, think of me fondly_  
_When we’ve said goodbye_  
_Remember me once in a while_  
_Please promise me you’ll try_

_When you find that once again you long_  
_To take your heart back and be free_  
_If you ever find a moment_  
_Spare a thought for me_

The audience applauds as I return to my spot in the choir. The music continues. It takes everything in me not to cry.

* * *

I almost don’t feel anything anymore when Patrick isn’t there on Friday. There is only a cold, numbing pain that is harsh inside of me, feeling like needles and snow and last spring. Even my friends are aware of my foul mood.

“There’s going to be a party today at Kristina’s house,” Carter says.

I shake my head. A party is one of the last things I want to do. As soon as school is over, I’m going home and lying in bed, but I rethink that. Mom is going to be too high-maintenance for me and I don’t need to handle more than I need to, so I make a note to stay over at Dad’s instead.

“Oh, come on.” Kyle throws an arm around my shoulders. “I know what you need: A nice, good-looking girl with —”

I shake his arm off my shoulders. “I don’t want a girl,” I mumble.

“Don’t deny life’s simple pleasures,” Kyle says and I know he’s joking, but still, I snap.

“I don’t like girls, okay, Kyle?” The words are like bullets and I’m pressing the trigger over and over again without a second thought. “I don’t need one. I don’t care about their boob sizes or the things they text or what it means when they giggle or smile or touch their hair. I’m gay!”

The whole table goes quiet.

I drop the gun and close my eyes.  _Shit._

Tyler is the first to speak. “Well… That explains a thing or two.”

 _Shit shit shit._ I want to get up from my seat and leave the room, the school, the state, the country maybe, but it feels as if I’ve been glued to my seat and I can’t get up, so I sit there and repeat curses in my head and hold back the urge to break something.

“So,” Kyle starts and I flinch at his voice, “that freckled guy…”

I’ve been a balloon, full to the point of popping, but at the mention of Patrick, I deflate and there’s only that flimsy, hollow ache left.

I let out a sigh. “Yeah, that freckled guy.”

Kyle nods. “Oh.”

This time, I find that I can get up onto my feet. I collect my half-finished lunch and put on my backpack. “Sorry to spring it up on you guys like that,” I tell them.

To my relief, none of them tries to stop me when I walk away.

* * *

Dad looks surprised when he opens the door and sees me, but just as quick, he smiles and moves forward to give me a hug. “Good to see you, Tristan.”

I smile wearily. “Hi, Dad.”

He ushers me into the house.

It’s much smaller than Mom’s – only one-floor, with a kitchen/dining room, living room, three bedrooms, and a bathroom/laundry room, but I’ve always felt more at home here than I do at Mom’s. My dad did a lot in his life before meeting Mom and having me. He traveled to so many places, met so many people, accomplished so many things and remnants of that life fills every space of the house, souvenirs and objects with so many stories attached to them. The basement is completely filled with these stories, a treasure trove of his history.

Ever since I was a little boy, my favorite has always been a spear Dad told me he got from Greece. The spear is undeniably old, but my dad always keeps it polished and its lithe form could still kill a man if used; a quiet, deadly presence entrapped in glass on top of the mantelpiece.

“What brings you here?” Dad asks.

Sheepishly, I admit, “I’m not really in the sort of mood to handle Mom right now.”

Dad laughs. “Probably how I felt every day of our marriage.” He pauses. “Even now that I think about it.”

I grin and shake my head at him.

“Did you already call and tell her?” Dad asks and I know he doesn’t want Mom showing up on the doorstep with Social Services.

I nod. “She wasn’t too happy about it.”

“Well, what else is new?” Dad asks, unsurprised. “Do you want anything to eat? I’ve been invited to a bowling game tonight in case you want to come.”

I shake my head. “I don’t really feel like doing anything today. Probably just going to go take a long nap.”

And – something Mom would never do – Dad simply nods. “Holler if you need something.”

* * *

I wake up to the sound of a bell ringing and the night pressing up against the window. The room is nearly pitch-black. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust and for me to recognize the sound of the doorbell.

I shift out of bed and shuffle to the front door. It’s probably Dad, but as I open the door, I realize that he has keys and wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell.

I stare, because it’s Patrick. He’s illuminated by the porch light. He’s the last person I would’ve expected to see on my dad’s doorstep. I end up gawking with my mouth opened and my eyes widened and I’m glad he can’t see my face.

Patrick holds up a hand. “Hey.”

Suddenly, everything is alright again, but then I remember that he disappeared for four days without any warning or contact, so I hesitate to say anything. Although I’m so, so relieved and grateful and happy to see him, I’m also mad and confused and hurt.

I hesitate a little too long.

Patrick drops his hand. Doubt and shame washes over his expression like an unpleasant wave. “I’m sorry,” he says and his voice is a small thing in the darkness.

I reach out and take his hand, pulling him inside and shutting the door and leading him to my room. I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping him until he tries to shift his wrist around in my hold, but only when we’re in my room and the door is closed and the lights on that I let him go.

“Tristan—” he starts.

I kiss him. I kiss him hard, trying to let out all that I’ve been feeling for the majority of this week, trying to claim him as mine so that he doesn’t ever leave me again, trying to imprint the shape of his lips and the touch of his tongue in my memory in case he ever does.

I press him against the door and his hands are rough and frantic against me, pulling up my shirt and undoing my zipper. His mouth is fervent against mine and I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly or for so long. When we finally pull away for air, we’re gasping like we’ve been drowning at sea.

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t falter. As soon as the kiss ends, he’s kissing my jaw and my neck and my shoulders and my collar bones and my chest. When he sucks at my nipples, a gasp pours from me.

I pull him back up and clutch him to me.

Patrick touches my cheek. “I’m sorry I missed your choir concert. I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear your solo.” He squeezes his eyes closed. “God, I’m so sorry, Tristan.”

I whisper into his ear, “I’ll sing it for you now, if you want.”

I can feel him nod, the side of his face brushing mine. “Yes, please.”

I’m still out-of-breath, but the only person I’ve wanted to sing for all along is him, so I sing my solo into his ear and when I’m done, I continue the song, dropping my tenor harmony for the melody,

_Think of all the things_  
_We’ve shared and seen_  
_Don’t think about the way_  
_Things might have been_

_Think of me, think of me waking_  
_Silent and resigned_  
_Imagine me, trying too hard_  
_To put you from my mind_

_Recall those days_  
_Look back on all those times_  
_Think of the things we’ll never do_  
_There will never be a day when I won’t think of you_

_We never said our love was evergreen_  
_Or as unchanging as the sea_  
_But please promise me_  
_That sometimes you will think of me_

I kiss him on the cheek before singing the last verse,

_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade_

_They have their seasons so do we_

_But please promise me that some times_

_You will think of me_

Patrick laughs at the last, elaborate “of” and I grin and nearly can’t finish the song, but I manage to and he claps and kisses me.

“Well, this is really unfair,” he says. “Not only are you a good athlete and beautiful and clever, but you’re a talented singer, too.”

I lightly hit him on the arm. “Hey.”

He looks at me and I don’t have to say anything, because he sees the question in my eyes and nods. “I loved it. Thank you.”

* * *

“What was the song?”

“‘Think of Me’ from  _The Phantom of the Opera_ ,” I reply. “Speaking of which, in the movie, the actor of the love interest has the same first name as you. I think that’s fate trying to tell me something.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I’m not a singer.”

I give him a look. “Something  _else_.”

Patrick stares at me. His breaths go still and he’s so astonished that I recall his words about Olivia, about how he wouldn’t be able to believe that someone that pretty would like him, about how he would  _really_  have to be convinced.

I don’t break eye contact as I get down on my knees and unzip his pants and pull them down to his ankles. His eyes widen even more. I look down to see the outline of his lust through his underwear and can’t help but grin. Carefully, I pull his underwear over and down to where his pants lie and then I run my tongue up along his erection, swirling my tongue around the tip.

He falls back against the door. I hear him gasp my name.

 _Let me show you how much I want you._  I take him in my mouth. I’ve seen porn before of guys being able to put the whole length in their mouths, but this is the first time I’ve ever done this, so I can only go as far as I can and listen to the sounds he makes for reassurance and hope it’s enough. I don’t know what else to do, so I make sure to keep my teeth out of the way and my tongue moving and he writhes and moans and runs his hands through my hair over and over and over again.

Somewhere in the back of my throat, I start to hum and Patrick moans even more. “Tristan.” A sound escapes from his mouth and it sounds like torment and pleasure all at once. “Tristan, oh God.”

Before I can stop myself, I’m laughing and I have to pull away. I don’t even know what’s so funny. I know I must look so rude and I’ve failed to prove myself to him, but I can’t seem to stop laughing. I look up at him. “Sorry. I’m horrible at this, aren’t I?” I swallow the other confession – that I’ve never given a blowjob before.

Patrick just looks down at me and I can’t help but laugh a little bit more, although it’s more out of uneasiness this time.

He holds out a hand and nervously, I take it. He pulls me to my feet and I’m pushed onto my bed with an “ _oof_!” and he’s dragging down my pants and boxers both at once.

I elevate myself up by my elbows and catch sight of him just a second before he takes me whole. I’ve never been more impressed or astounded in my life. In the next second, my back convulses in an arch and the way he moves his mouth has me thinking curses and gratitude and making sounds I never would’ve thought I was capable of making. My breathing becomes shallow, suddenly a burden. My hips move to the beat of his mouth. I feel myself begin to throb and I squeeze my eyes and clench my teeth together. When I finally come, it’s as if I’m no longer in a body and have become a weightless thing in the sky.

Patrick gets on the bed and lies next to me on his side, facing me and licking his lips.

I turn my head to look at him, my breaths quick. “Fuck, Pat. What was that?”

He gives me a small, secret, almost devious smile. “A lesson.”

* * *

We occupy the rest of our time doing other things. I avoid bringing up his absence the past few days and he avoids asking me for a second try. I’m slightly afraid to attempt another blowjob again, unsure of my lackluster abilities now that I can compare them to Patrick’s. I vow to search up tutorials later in private.

I get out the balls I use for juggling and juggle them as Patrick catches them and tosses them back to me. I pry him for the reasons behind his ability until he finally admits that he used to play sports.

“Why don’t you play sports now?” I ask.

From where he stands near a corner of the room, he shifts from one foot to the other, almost uncertainly. “I didn’t like the environment,” he finally says and I don’t press on further.

I ask him how he knew where my dad’s house was and – to my surprise – he tells me that my mom told him. When I tell him of what happened at lunch today, he gawks at me and then gives me a thumbs up. “Way to go.”

“No,” I shake my head. “I wasn’t using my head. I didn’t even mean to tell them.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “If you need somewhere new to sit, you’re always welcome to sit with Bree and me, but I’m sure your friends are going to be okay with it. They just need time.”

I think of the girl he always sits with. Long, dark hair, animated hands, always wearing long skirts. She could be a gypsy if she wanted to be. “How do you know her?”

“Bree?” He asks.

I nod.

“We have environmental science together,” he says.

“I was a little bit jealous of her,” I admit.

Patrick stares at me and then bursts out laughing.

I blush, turning my focus to juggling.

“Well, that’d be a waste of jealousy,” he says. “Seeing as how I’m only attracted to juggling, blonde boys with angelic voices.”

I grin despite myself.

He tosses a ball back to me. “How long have you known?”

I cease juggling, letting the balls fall into my hands. I think about it. “I don’t know. My whole life, I think. You?”

Patrick purses his lips. He catches a ball that I throw to him. “Same.”

Later, when we are lying on my bed, unclothed for the heck of it, he asks me, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Hmm…” I run my hands over his chest, pondering over my answer. “Possibly. I think anything is fair game.”

“Maybe we knew each other in a past life,” he says, playfully. He takes my hand and presses a kiss against my palm.

I like the idea. “Who do you think we were?” I ask.

Patrick smiles. “Maybe you were Achilles.”

The name stirs something inside of me, something I can’t quite put my finger on. “The Greek guy who got an arrow shot into his heel?”

Patrick laughs. “There’s more to him than that, but yes, that Greek guy.” He looks embarrassed as he says the next part, “I was curious and looked up your name once and ‘Pelides’ does mean ‘son of Peleus’ and the son of Peleus was Achilles.”

“Well, I did injure my Achilles tendon this spring during track.” I shrug, trying not to show how amused and happy I am that he was curious about me. “My dad is crazy about the Greeks and my mom is from Greece, so maybe that plays a part in it.”

Patrick covers his face, self-consciously. “I don’t know. It’s just a crazy theory.”

“No,” I shake my head. “It’s interesting. What about you? Who were you?”

“I don’t really know,” Patrick admits. “Maybe I was just some random Greek guy from Achilles’ teenage years who he quickly forgot.”

I make a loud buzzing sound. “Wrong answer! Try again.”

He doesn’t laugh like I expect him to. His eyes have gotten distant and sad again and I wish he wasn’t so down on himself, because he’s so gorgeous and smart and wonderful.

“Pat, I bet everything that you were someone really important,” I say. “Still are now.”

He doesn’t look like he believes me.

I turn his face towards me and kiss him tenderly.

A heartbeat later, he kisses me back.

As we’re kissing, I trail a hand down his chest, past his stomach, and between his legs. I don’t allow myself to dwell on failure. I go for it. His lips unlock from mine with a gasp and he presses his face into the curve of my neck. He whispers my name and it’s almost enough to set me over the edge. I quicken the rhythm of my hand and he presses closer and closer to me and his breaths get quicker and quicker, warm against my skin.

There’s a knock at my door. Quickly, I place my free hand over Patrick’s mouth.

From the other side of the door, Dad asks, “Tristan, do you want dinner?”

Patrick’s muffled groan escapes between my fingers. Thinking fast, I grab my blanket and lift it to Patrick’s mouth and he looks at me, uncomprehending. I gesture for him to bite it. The whole time my hand is moving, ceaselessly, almost automatically.

“I made some meatloaf!” Dad says.

I’m so mesmerized by the hazy pleasure on Patrick’s face that I almost forget to reply. “No, thank you! I want to get to 200 sit-ups.” I quickly add, “And I already ate.”

“Alright,” Dad says. “Good luck on the sit-ups.”

“Tha –” I trail off when I feel something slick come over my fingers. When I look down, I am awed and thrilled by the sight of cum over Patrick’s stomach and shiny on my fingers. “How was bowling?” I ask, grinning.

“Good.” Dad says.

I hold back a laugh. “Great.” I run my fingers over Patrick’s stomach in wonder. “That’s really great.”

When my dad has left, Patrick takes the blanket out from his mouth. “Next time your dad comes, we’re doing that, but you’ll be the one with the blanket in your mouth,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

I grin and guide his hand between my legs. “Let’s make it a tradition then.”

* * *

I reach out to bring Patrick closer to me, but when I do, I grasp nothing but empty air. I’m suddenly aware that I woke up to a sound and my eyes fly open. I lie there until my eyes adjust. In the darkness, I can make out the silhouette of Patrick sitting on the bed, pulling on a shirt.

“Pat?” I ask. The tiredness fades away bit by bit as I sit up, letting the blanket fall to my waist.

“Go to sleep, Tristan,” Patrick says. There’s something off about his voice. The sound of it is different and I don’t know if it’s because I just woke up or not, but my eyebrows furrow in worry.

“Where are you going?” I glance at my digital clock. “It’s only 3 o’clock.”

Patrick stands up. His back is to me. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “You’re supposed to be in bed with me.”

“No, Tristan.” His voice cracks.

With a shock, I realize that his voice is stuffy and he’s been crying. “Pat, what’s wrong?”

“I’m a horrible person. You deserve better, but I still come in here like you don’t.” Patrick turns to me and with each word, he steps back and back until he’s just a black outline against the wall. “Your mom didn’t tell me where your dad’s house was. I followed you from school and sat around outside like a creep and I wasn’t supposed to be doing any of that – any of this today. I’m a freak. I’m a freckled, freaky faggot.”

I stare at him in horror. I feel like all the light in him has disappeared and I don’t know what to do to get it back. I don’t know where all these words are coming from, but I want them to stop, because from him, they sound so wrong. They’re ugly and hateful and revolting and he’s not.  _He’s not._

“Pat —”

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you, Tristan?” Patrick demands. “I’m not a good person. I-I… I murdered someone for fuck’s sake!”

I feel like throwing up. This is all a bad dream. It has to be.

Almost hysterically, Patrick continues, “Do you know why I came to Phthia? Because at my old school there was this guy, Clyde, and he wouldn’t leave me alone, so one day I pushed him and I did it too hard, because when his head hit the ground, he fell into a coma. His family had me tried, but I was found innocent and my family and I have been helping them pay Clyde’s medical bills as compensation, but now there’s no point, because he died on Tuesday. I was supposed to be in court today, but I was scared and I wanted to see you and so I fled like a coward. I ran away like a frec —”

“Don’t you ever dare say it again!” I shout.

He goes quiet.

“Shit,” I mutter. I don’t know what else to say, what else to do. It’s a gross thing to realize that maybe I really don’t know him as well as I thought I did. All I can I do is repeat “shit shit shit” over and over again.

Patrick laughs, bitterly. “You regret it, don’t you? Getting blown by a guy like –”

“ _No_ ,” I cut him off. “No. I don’t regret it. So stop trying to change it. You don’t dictate my feelings. Now come back to bed and get some sleep – it’s 3 in the morning for crying out loud. We’ll figure things out tomorrow.”

Patrick doesn’t make a move towards me or out the door.

I soften my voice. “Come here, Pat.” I hold out a hand.

The seconds seem to stretch out into minutes before he finally walks towards me. I can’t make out his expression in the dimness and he doesn’t take my hand, but he gets onto the bed and under the covers, lying as far away as he can from me.

We don’t speak, but we don’t sleep either.

Later, when I hear him crying, I move closer to him. He doesn’t try to push me away when I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer. He cries for a long time and even though I’m so exhausted, I don’t fall asleep until long after he does.

* * *

“Fuck.”

Other than myself, the bed is empty and there’s no sign of Patrick in the room. Morning sunshine falls through the window, but it does nothing to stop the cold that prickles my skin when I remove the covers.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying to wrap my mind all that happen, all the good and all the bad. My heart is being tugged in so many directions at once. I don’t know rather to smile or cry or sing or sleep or search or stay, but I know that if he was here, things would be better – even despite all of it.

I press my face into my hands and take in a deep breath.

I make my decision. I will not cry or sleep or stay. I will get dressed and eat breakfast and smile and sing and search for him.

Exhaling a breath, I stand up and move to get my clothes. It’s then that I spot the note on the dresser. It’s on the back of a science worksheet I recognize from middle school. In quick, thin letters Patrick has written,

_I know you’re going to want to find me, but please don’t. It’ll be better if you don’t. I’m sorry for shoving all of this onto you. It’s not yours to bear. This is my problem and I have to be the one to handle it. Because of you I now can. You’ve been the best thing that’s happened to me all year and when I think about it, it’s been more of a blessing than unfortunate timing that I met you when I did. Thank you, Tristan. I hope I get to see you again._

* * *

On Monday, I searched for Patrick before school and during every passing period. I knew I could have waited until lunch or AP Lit, but a weekend of worrying and desperate hoping wasn’t willing to wait any longer. I never found him and the worry was finally beginning to give away to all-out panic.

As I gave the hallways one last look-through before lunch – and an inevitable encounter with guys who would or wouldn’t want to be friends with me anymore, I caught sight of a freckled face.

I stopped in my tracks, craning my head to see if it really was Patrick, not knowing what I was going to do if it wasn’t. Then I saw –  _yes_  – it was him and I wanted to shout and cry and sing. I ran to him, unaware of and not caring about the other people in the hallway.

“Patrick!” I yelled.

He stopped, but didn’t have time to say anything, because I was throwing my arms around him and pressing him tightly against me.

“How did it go?” I asked.

“Tristan,” he said in a tight voice, “you’re suffocating me.”

I let go of him immediately. “Sorry.”

Patrick gave me a half-hearted smile.

Time seemed to slow down from there. I saw him opening his mouth to speak, but past his shoulder, I also saw the guy turning the corner. He was just a student and I was about to focus my attention back on Patrick when I saw the guy look over at us.

And then I saw the gun.

There was a gun in his hand and it was being raised, being pointed towards us, and he pressed the trigger.

I half-pushed, half-moved in front of Patrick and the only thought that went through my mind before the bullet hit me was,  _I can’t lose him again._

* * *

Epilogue – Afterlife

_I never really did give much thought to what happens after people die until you talked to me about it. The thought of having been a nearly indestructible Greek hero was cool, but what I liked most of all about reincarnation was the thought that I had known you before and maybe I would know you again in a lifetime after._

_I wasn’t reborn, but what happened instead was much better. Opening my eyes and seeing your beautiful face and the smile that bloomed across it and you kissing me for everyone in the room to see. If that had been the afterlife, I wouldn’t have minded dying at all._

_Hector – the guy who shot me – was cousin to Clyde and had sought you out in vengeance. When the rescheduled trial was held, this action swayed the jury in your favor and – although I know you’re still tortured by all that happened with Clyde and almost with me – when you were declared innocent, you felt so relieved._

_My friends never really felt comfortable around me again, but I had to give them points for trying and I did not feel the slightest remorse over having to sit with you and Bree._

_Missing out on cross country due to my injured leg did nothing to brighten my mom’s mood and she wasn’t very happy with our relationship, but by then, I had given up trying to please her._

_Compared to you, none of it really mattered. Winning homecoming king, singing in choir concerts, running in track, the last day of school – they were only important because you were there to push me in my wheelchair, there in the audience, there to cheer me on, there to walk hand-in-hand with me into summer._

_And as I improve in bed – this – and kiss you – this – and embrace you close – this— and breathe you in –_ him, him, him _, I can’t help but feel as if we’ve won something important. We’ve beaten some force that kept us apart –_ together _._

**Author's Note:**

> If you tumblr, check out the fanfic here: http://faerielament.tumblr.com/post/109933112031/the-song-of-achilles-together  
> \- and reblog/like!  
> (This is a fic I actually wrote months ago.)


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